


Sixth Time's The Charm

by karuvapatta



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst with a Happy Ending, Historical References, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Mutual Pining, Religious Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-05-28 17:41:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19399144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karuvapatta/pseuds/karuvapatta
Summary: Five times Aziraphale and Crowley were mistaken for a couple, and one time they weren't.





	Sixth Time's The Charm

**1: 1950s**

It was a lovely warm summer evening. The new restaurant on the South Bank had been everything he could possibly hope for, and the streets of London were bustling with activity as he made his leisurely way back to Soho. If he squinted, he could even pick out one or two stars in the sky above.

Yes. Lovely.

As he neared the bookshop, however, Aziraphale began to notice something quite out of the ordinary. His step quickened; he felt a tightening in his chest. What had been the front window of his shop was now several large shards of glass, devilishly sharp, stuck in the frame like teeth of a giant beast. Between them was the gaping maw of darkness – although since he was an angel and could see quite well in darkness, he picked out the glitter of shattered glass on the floor.

He came to a stop in front of the broken window.

“Good Lord,” Aziraphale said to himself.

He fumbled with the key and then lit the lights without bothering to locate the switch. There was a red brick, conspicuous among the bookshelves, thrown there with a considerable amount of strength and precision by someone from the street. Aziraphale searched around the bookshop but found no sign of presence, human or demonic. They threw the brick and then made themselves scarce, sometime within the last half an hour.

And – he couldn’t help a shudder – they had painted rude words on the brick itself, as well as the door to his shop. Aziraphale was no stranger to human insults and quite intimately familiar with this one in particular, preposterous as it was.

Crowley had been here yesterday, having been sent to somewhere within the Soviet Union but quite unwilling to go. Aziraphale had agreed, as per the Arrangement. He owed Crowley for 1941, and besides—besides—well, he just owed Crowley.

Still, this? This was just ridiculous. He would have miracled a brand new windowpane (made it thicker while he was at it), but he didn’t want to risk Gabriel showing up for a surprise audit. Better wait for morning and call the glazier.

He did snap his fingers, however, and removed the painted words. The contempt and malice hanging about them turned his stomach.

**2: 2014**

Soho was celebrating today. It felt good to feel the joy around him, even if he, personally, had no share in it.

“Good news, innit?” asked the friendly baker woman from down the street, whose croissants were in Aziraphale’s Top 10 Of All Time. “For you and your young man.”

Aziraphale offered her a handful of coins in exchange for the brown paper bag.

“What young man are you referring to, ma’am?” he asked carefully.

The woman lowered her voice and winked. “The gloomy chap in the sunglasses, obviously. You two must be ecstatic!”

“I think that perhaps you have the wrong idea,” Aziraphale said, smiling. “But thank you nonetheless.”

“Oh… That’s a shame,” she said, deflating. Then she perked right up. “Do let me know if you two change your minds though. I make terrific wedding cakes.”

“You will be the first to know, ma’am,” he said.

He stepped out onto the sunlit street, unable to stop himself from unfolding the bag to inhale the delicious aroma. The world might be ending in a couple of years, but for a while yet, he could enjoy everything it had to offer.

**3: 1862**

His sour mood did not go unnoticed, unfortunately. Aziraphale did try to smile and exchange pleasantries as per usual, but he had always been an abysmal liar. Ever since that day in the Garden millennia ago, and the location of a certain flaming sword.

He would be quite content to be left alone with his drink, but that wasn’t to be the case. Well—perhaps a distraction—

Midway through the game of chess, the other gentleman (a frequent guest at the club and a particular friend of Aziraphale’s) cleared his throat.

“Whatever happened, Master Fell?” he asked. “Forgive me such forwardness, but I have never seen you this upset.”

Aziraphale sighed.

“A friend of mine—well,” he frowned. “Not even a friend, really. It would not be wise to consider him such. You see—he wanted something from me that I couldn’t give him, and I fear I have insulted him greatly by refusing.”

He moved his bishop half-heartedly across the board.

“Ah,” the man said, very carefully. “I think I see what you mean. It is unfortunate when it happens, is it not?”

“Most unfortunate,” Aziraphale agreed. He should leave it at that but he needed to get this off his chest, and the gentleman seemed understanding, at the very least. “I tried to explain my reasoning, but he didn’t want to listen. Even though he must understand the danger he would be placing himself in.”

He knocked down the opponent’s remaining knight and fiddled with it, trying to make sense of what had happened earlier, with Crowley.

“Why would he ask me?” he sighed. “He should know by now that I wouldn’t want to see him hurt, shouldn’t he? After so many years…” He set down the knight with more force than necessary, too distracted to focus on the game. “Most stubborn, foolish, _reckless_ of creatures, that man. And yet—”

The other was observing him intently. Aziraphale, as he began to realize the sheer absurdity of what he had been saying, tried to cover it with a friendly smile.

“Your turn, I believe,” he said, and left it at that.

**4: 1814**

“It is such an honour to make your acquaintance, ma’am,” Aziraphale said happily. “I must say, I couldn’t put down your latest novel.”

“Oh?” one of the other ladies at the table raised a delicate brow. “Jane’s novels? Aren’t they too frivolous for a gentleman such as yourself?”

“Nonsense! I found them charming,” he replied. “Most delightful insight into the human psyche. I was rather hoping you could sign them for me, ma’am.”

“I would love to,” said the woman, smiling.

“You must tell us all about London, Master Fell,” one of the younger ladies said excitedly. “It is dreadful here – nothing ever happens! London must be so exciting!”

“It is, rather,” Aziraphale said. “Although I run but a humble book shop.”

“Oh.”

The air of excitement around the table was suddenly gone. Aziraphale sipped his tea in serene silence while the ladies exchanged disappointed glances. _A merchant_ , they whispered, and excused themselves at the earliest opportunity. Only Miss Jane remained, a glint in her eyes.

“Do you not dance, Master Fell?” she asked.

“Not if I can help it,” Aziraphale replied. “I’m afraid I have no talent for it.”

“Well, all the young ladies here must be terribly disappointed,” she sighed.

Aziraphale set down his tea cup and looked around the room. It was loud and merry, the floor crowded with dancers. There were indeed more ladies than gentleman, which was how he found himself at a table with five of them.

“I would be of no use to the young ladies, ma’am,” he said. “This is not the purpose of my visit to your charming town.”

“What is, then?” she asked. “Have you really come all this way to meet me?”

“Indeed I have!” he said. He went out of his way to meet the authors whenever possible. On this occasion, he had to trade a favour with Crowley but did not regret a single minute of it.

“Thank you,” said Miss Jane. “I’m flattered. Will you stay for long?”

“No, unfortunately,” he said. “I had to leave a friend of mine in charge of the shop. He must be getting dreadfully bored by this point. I’m afraid that if I leave him there for too long, he will start selling my books out of spite.”

“Oh? But isn’t that the purpose of running a book shop?”

Aziraphale shrugged, a little embarrassed. “I must confess that I’m more interested in collecting books than I am in trading them.”

“I see,” said Miss Jane.

There was a light, teasing note in her voice. He did enjoy her wit and sardonic sense of humour, and they chatted amiably throughout the rest of the evening.

It was later that she looked at him seriously, when the eastern sky began to lighten and most of the guests had been too drunk to walk straight.

“You might consider marriage either way, Master Fell,” she said, sipping wine from a glass. “You would be saving some young lady from misfortune, and yourself from unkind rumours.”

“Rumours!” he said, raising his own glass. “I never wasted my time on those, ma’am. They do not affect me.”

After a lengthy pause, she replied: “How fortunate you are.”

**5: 1980**

“What is it now?” Crowley asked.

The demon was in a wretched mood, despite (or maybe because of) Aziraphale’s attempts at cheering him up. And now their stroll had to be cut short by the arrival of a middle-aged man in a suit and a priest’s collar, followed by another dozen people, all of whom were smiling.

“It is not too late to repent,” the man said, oozing helpfulness from every pore. “God loves all of His children, no matter how misguided.”

Oh dear. Crowley’s face hardened; Aziraphale placed a hand on his shoulder before he realized what he was doing, and then felt too awkward to try and remove it.

“No,” Crowley said. “She doesn’t.”

The man looked momentarily scandalized but then schooled his face into a polite smile.

“You are lost, my child,” he said. Crowley bristled. “Come with us to the House of God, both of you, and sin no more!”

“We were _walking_ ,” Crowley snapped. “Is that a sin now, too?”

The half-circle of people around them looked on in friendly anticipation. They also cut off any possible escape route, in an equally amiable manner.

“You have the wrong idea about us, I’m afraid,” said Aziraphale placatingly. “But your enthusiasm is commendable.”

“Don’t encourage them, angel,” Crowley said.

A ripple went through the crowd. Aziraphale was beginning to grow nervous.

“If you would be so kind as to step aside, my friend and I will happily go our own way,” Aziraphale said.

“But your way leads straight to Hell,” the man shook his head sadly. “Fear not, we are here to help you find the right path—”

His words cut off abruptly. He relaxed, eyes taking on a glassy appearance, while behind him his followers assumed similar non-expression as their mind was forced elsewhere.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Aziraphale said.

“I have better things to do than argue with people like them,” Crowley hissed. “And need I remind you that this is your company policy, and not mine?” he smiled, not very pleasantly. “Now—”

He raised his hand, preparing to snap his fingers. Aziraphale took his wrist and lowered it gently.

“Let’s just go,” he sighed. “There is a very nice restaurant nearby that I was going to show you.”

**+1: 2020**

Crowley dropped by the bookshop every couple of days or so, for seemingly no purpose. He did like to sit in Aziraphale’s small reading section, taking up as much space as possible so as to discourage other customers, and peruse Aziraphale’s astronomy albums (that he had stocked for that very purpose, not that he would ever admit it out loud).

It was early afternoon, and the shop was blissfully deserted. Crowley paused suddenly, twirling Scotch in his glass, and looked up.

“Did you hear that?” he asked.

“Hmm?”

Aziraphale was so engrossed in his book he had barely registered the question. He most certainly hadn’t heard the noise, which was that of the soft twinkling of bells that marked the arrival of four angels inside his bookshop.

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley stood up, hefting the album in his hand as if he were seriously considering its usefulness for inflicting blunt force trauma.

Gabriel cast him a long, contemptuous look. His expression barely changed when he turned towards Aziraphale.

“You two idiots think you’re really clever, don’t you?” he said.

“Well yes, actually,” Crowley said from behind him. “It’s been, what? Three years?”

Uriel smiled. Then he punched Crowley in the stomach, hard enough to make him double over. The album dropped from his limp fingers.

“Three years,” Gabriel said in a mostly pleasant tone of voice that rung all sorts of warning bells inside Aziraphale’s head. “We did not believe you would stoop so low, Aziraphale. Giving over your Heaven-issued corporeal form to a demon.”

“Yes, well—” said Aziraphale.

“I,” Gabriel interrupted. “Am very disappointed in you.”

Uriel and Sandalphon grabbed Crowley by the arms and forced him down onto his knees. Their touch could be vicious to a demon; Crowley clenched his jaw and tried to shift his head away from them both.

And they were _smiling_. All four of them: Uriel and Sandalphon, Gabriel with his self-righteous smirk, and Michael, holding a jug of what Aziraphale assumed to be Holy Water in a dainty grip. It had never, not for a _second_ , occurred to them that they might be in the wrong.

Aziraphale snapped his book shut.

“Very sorry to hear that,” he said politely. “But it’s been noted. Was there anything else?”

It was impossible to say because of the sunglasses, but he thought Crowley might have been staring at the jug in Michael’s grip. They were still half a bookshop apart, luckily. Somehow, he would have to make sure it stayed that way.

Gabriel offered him a tight-lipped smile.

“It is quite obvious you have lost your way, Aziraphale,” he said. “Fear not! We have come to set things right. First, we will rid you of that demon’s despicable presence.”

Aziraphale folded his hands in his lap.

“Rid me of Crowley’s presence,” he repeated.

“He has tempted you with his,” Gabriel gestured vaguely. “Demonic wiles. You should be thanking us for saving you—”

“I should?”

“Frankly, Aziraphale, I have yet to decide if there is anything about you worth saving,” Gabriel snapped. “I _want_ there to be. But if I have no other choice, I will see you damned.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale said.

He set the book aside and rose to his feet. It didn’t do him much good; Gabriel was a good head taller and broader across the shoulder.

“But you cannot damn me, Gabriel,” he said slowly. “Only God can do that.”

“We do God’s will,” Sandalphon said. He was digging his hands into Crowley’s shoulder in an unnecessarily harsh manner, Aziraphale thought.

“And the Almighty has commanded you, specifically, to come here today and murder Crowley for his vile demonic acts of reading… what were you reading, dear?”

“Hmm?” Crowley was still staring at the jug of water. “Just looking at the pictures, really.”

“He is a _demon_ ,” Uriel said. “It’s immaterial what he says or does.”

Aziraphale sighed. “Yes, I was a bit worried you might say that.”

“Very narrow minded, your people are,” Crowley said conversationally.

“They can be, they can be,” Aziraphale rubbed his hands together. “Now that we’ve established that, would you mind letting Crowley go?” They didn’t even bother to answer. Aziraphale sighed. “I’m going to have to insist. You see, I don’t want to be rid of Crowley. I _like_ Crowley. In fact, I love him.”

He walked up to Michael, who – he was pleased to see – did seem a bit nervous. He was able to retrieve the jug of water with very little resistance. Were they going to make him pour it on Crowley with his own hands? Depressingly, it would seem like something they might do.

“If you are right, the Almighty should damn me for this,” he said. He made sure Crowley was far enough, and then poured the jug over his own head. Water soaked his hair and clothes and ran in rivulets down his face and neck. “But, look! Still an angel!” He shoved the emptied jug at Gabriel’s chest. “God didn’t judge me, so what gives _you_ the right?”

“Aziraphale—” Gabriel began, in his infuriatingly self-righteous tone of voice.

“I outrank you, Gabriel. You like to forget that,” Aziraphale said coolly. “Now get out of my bookshop.”

He kept staring straight into Gabriel’s purple eyes until the other angel was forced to relent. He gestured at the three and they all vanished in a flash of blinding white light.

Slowly, Crowley climbed to his feet.

“Do be careful,” Aziraphale said, staring down at the puddle of holy water, getting bigger as more water dripped down from his hair and clothes. “I’m going to clean it up right away. Are you hurt?”

“Nope,” Crowley said after a lengthy pause. “Tickety-boo.”

Aziraphale smiled and miracled the puddle away with a flick of his hand. He wouldn’t want to see Crowley destroyed because he touched a dirty mop three months from now.

“I’m going to get changed,” he said.

“Sure,” Crowley said carefully. “Uh. Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale paused.

“What was that about—you know—” he made a weird gesture, then a face, then another couple of gestures, and then waggled his eyebrows up and down.

Aziraphale blinked. Crowley wasn’t surprised, was he? Surely he must have known; _everyone_ seemed to know. He might not have ever said it out loud, true—and now he wondered why he hadn’t. It felt good to say it; he might have to say it again and again, just because of how good it felt.

“I thought—” he began.

“No, no, this is fine!” Crowley said, waving his hands frantically. “It’s fine. We don’t need to discuss anything. Dinner? On me?”

Aziraphale couldn’t help a smile, soft and warm and endlessly fond. “With pleasure.”


End file.
